Chapter Three: Addicted
Champion had first realized that he was addicted soon after his and his grandmother's return from Belleville. One rainy night, as he cycled up the steep incline of the Parisian streets, he had begun to tremble, then to shake, his body vibrating so violently that he was unable to keep pedaling and pitched headlong into his handlebars, his bike crumpling beneath him. His grandmother had been riding behind him and quickly helped him up, supporting both him and his bicycle as they made their way home, agonizingly slowly. For the first time since Belleville, Champion had been afraid.
His grandmother had cared for him. She'd attributed his sudden weakness to the onslaught of a particularly insidious case of pneumonia that he'd undoubtedly caught from riding in the rain. A few days' bed rest, she'd told him, and the hot slimy broth that had taken the place of his usual fare, would eradicate the disease. Champion knew better—he was going through withdrawal, and he desperately needed the drug that he now knew he could not bicycle without.
He had found a grimy shop, a haven for the hopeless and distraught, that night when he'd sneaked out of the house after his grandmother had fallen asleep. Barely able to keep his balance, he had bicycled to a place he had passed many times before in the heart of the city. There, he'd spent the greater portion of his last race's winnings to buy a cardboard box filled with what the store manager had said he needed. The man had promised him that the drugs would work—and they did. Champion was completely in the grips of addiction, and almost past caring.
Steering his mind away from such disheartening thoughts, Champion rolled back his sleeve to reveal his bony forearm. The skin in a dime-sized area below his wrist was stark white, raised and knotted from the scarring that had accumulated where the needle pierced his flesh. Champion squinted to discern the blue line of his vein in the dim light, and gritted his teeth. With an artist's care, he slipped the needle into his arm, biting his tongue to keep from whimpering at the sudden jab of pain.
The shock quickly gave way to a mild, more easily stood burning sensation as the needle started to work, delivering the necessary substance. Champion relaxed as the drug flowed into him, and he closed his eyes as its calming effects ensnared his senses. He felt supernaturally light and incorporeal, as though gravity had suddenly become less influential. Yet at the same time, he was aware of a marked sharpening of his thought and a more willing response of his body. Sluggish muscle and sinew were stimulated with the return of the drug that they needed; life rushed back into his trembling arms and hands. The needle's pain remained dull and easily forgotten, as the memory of his captivity in Belleville surfaced. He tried not to focus on it, instead savoring the feeling of waking up that accompanied the reintroduction of his sacred liquid. However, his fevered brain was working again, and with the restoration of thought came the painful realization of the consequences of his undeniable addiction.
The task of satisfying his cravings for the drug grew more difficult with each day. By now he had begun to develop a substantial amount of tolerance for it and it took larger and larger doses to achieve the same effects. His eyes were bloodshot and his head throbbed from sleep deprivation caused by his nightly rituals. It was inconceivable that his grandmother would be fooled for long—and once she discovered his worsening habit, what would she do but prevent him from continuing—something that would undermine years of hard work in a single week?
For a moment, sadness gripped his heart. He was deceiving his grandmother, the only person in the world who had ever really cared…but he hated the thought of telling her the truth. Would she think he was weak?—More importantly, would she still love him? He wasn't sure that he wanted to know the answer.
There, too, was the matter of drug tests before the major races, a procedure that was sure to expose him once and for all. Even if he resisted indulging for a few nights before a race, he would never be able to finish without a dose of the substance. He couldn't possibly perform at his peak without them anymore. And if he were discovered, his name would be sullied for the rest of his life—he would be branded a fallen champion, consumed by a need over which he knew he no longer had any control.
Champion tried to forget these cares and fall back into the calming state of relaxation that the drug offered, but his numb mind had been stimulated into functioning again and he could not banish the disquiet. His enjoyment drained out of him slowly as the last few drops of the liquid seeped into his bloodstream.
Champion grimaced in pain as he gingerly drew the needle out of his vein. A bead of blood welled on his arm as he immersed the needle in the bottle of rubbing alcohol, and he absently wiped the crimson drop away with the bloodstained cloth. That dose should keep him going for a day or so at least, but he worried what would happen when he needed it more than once a day—he'd be forced to stop in the middle of his training to satisfy his body's cravings, and he couldn't afford to let that happen. Above all, his training sessions must remain uninterrupted and sacred as they had been before the drug had come into his life.
Collecting his effects, Champion wearily returned to his closet and deposited them in their hiding place behind the stack of cycling keepsakes. The drug sang through his veins, returning hope to his deprived body—though for how long, this time, he didn't know. He began to cross the room to turn off his light, but a twinkling of something—perhaps only a flickering bulb, outside his window—made him turn to stare out towards the city, through tired eyes.
Paris's night was bright as always, colorful lights dancing on the horizon and in buildings that loomed higher and higher in the city center. The distant Eiffel Tower gleamed cheerfully, its familiar A-shape strangely reassuring amid the dark, square blocks of the other buildings. Another commuter train approached the house from the overhead railway, gliding fluidly along the track.
Champion stared out into the night of his home, searching for a seed of hope amid the shadowed buildings and bright lights.
~~~
A person who took the ten-fifteen train that night might see more than the hopelessness and despair in the bloodshot eyes of the man who stared out of his window, expecting nothing from the world and receiving nothing in return. They might see more than the broken dreams and piercing heartache, more than the mistreated slave that he had become to the substance that coursed through him.
If a person looked with eyes of sympathy and love, they might be able to see a remnant of the weary innocent he had been, glancing mournfully back.
And there is the portrait of our tragic hero. Just to provide you with some information, the drug that he's taking is an amphetamine—"speed" is the common term. Makes a morbid sort of sense, doesn't it? While I'm on the subject: Drugs are BAD. Don't do them; I never have (yet I write about them—???)
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